Happy Autumn, season of migration and harvest

Perhaps it's been the Equinox bringing us some good luck, but we've had a couple of pleasant surprises today. First, while we were at one of our favorite local bookstores, the Better Half spotted a volume of Edward Abbey's poems. If you visit regularly, you know we've long been fans of Abbey's writing. We knew he considered himself more of a poet, but actually never expected to encounter a volume of his poems. All we've seen so far were essays and Desert Solitaire.

feeding monarch butterflies

Photo by J. Harrington

Then, on the way home, taking a slightly different route than usual so we could pick up our freshly tuned chain saw, we spotted four monarch butterflies, each in flight. We thought they were all well South of us by now and, clearly, were incorrect. We think we may be seeing the tag end of migration of those that emerged North of our place and are just now drifting toward Mexico. The sightings have been duly reported to Journey North.

will there be leaves on this oak branch next year?

Photo by J. Harrington

Sometime within the last week or so, we noted that some of the leaves on an oak behind the house had changed colors well before the rest of the tree. Today we noticed that the branch, and leaves, in question are located just above the lower, dead, branches on the tree. We'll watch with interest to see if any leaves appear on the "early change" branch next Spring or if this Autumn's leaf drop becomes the last for that branch. We've read that if the leaves on a branch have limited photosynthesis, the tree will stop feeding that branch. In effect, the tree becomes self-pruning.

Lightness in Autumn

By Robert Fitzgerald

The rake is like a wand or fan,   

With bamboo springing in a span   

To catch the leaves that I amass   

In bushels on the evening grass.

I reckon how the wind behaves   

And rake them lightly into waves   

And rake the waves upon a pile,   

Then stop my raking for a while.

The sun is down, the air is blue,   

And soon the fingers will be, too,   

But there are children to appease   

With ducking in those leafy seas.

So loudly rummaging their bed

On the dry billows of the dead,

They are not warned at four and three   

Of natural mortality.

Before their supper they require   

A dragon field of yellow fire

To light and toast them in the gloom.   

So much for old earth’s ashen doom.

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